


Wine and Punishment

by lettalady



Series: Blips and Blurbs [38]
Category: British Actor RPF, Real Person Fiction
Genre: mourning and death of a relative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:14:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26487010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lettalady/pseuds/lettalady
Summary: Prompt fulfillment:Altered it a bit from the original request of seeing Tom and the OFC having a discussion regarding the pursuit of dreams… Mixed it with an imagine about Tom getting slapped
Series: Blips and Blurbs [38]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1925065
Kudos: 5





	Wine and Punishment

**T** here’s a sort of ruckus coming from the back of the restaurant. A moment’s indulgence of your curiosity won’t delay you too much. They _are_ still putting your order in the to-go containers. You lean to try to spot the reason for the rowdiness. A family gathering? – oh – It is easy to spot the tall sandy-blonde man standing among the rest. Tom’s come home to visit with his people between jobs. It’s been a wonderful thing to watch his career blossom, all his hard work meeting with success. He’d be the hometown hero for that alone, factor in his natural charisma and it’s easy to understand why the entire community treats him as the favorite son.

You consider popping over to say hello to the man you’ve watched grow from the boisterous young man who lived down the street to the international star he is today, but then your order is bagged and ready. You’ve got to be off. Another time. Another visit. You scoop up the bags, careful to keep the containers level, foregoing last looks toward the back corner of the restaurant. You don’t make it three steps from the counter before being beckoned back again by someone hurrying from the kitchen. “Oh! Wait – the beans!”

Yes. The beans were the most important part of the meal – if you believed everyone and your mother. These days you’re unwilling to deny her anything. “Thank, Ger. Never would have heard the end of it if I’d come home without them. Didn’t even notice them missing…” Because you’d been thinking about things other than taking care of dinner. Even feeling the tinge of guilt you find yourself glancing back towards Hiddleston-central, only to find the guest of honor heading your way.

Tom is all hugs and warm greetings. “Didn’t expect to see you here! Are you visiting home, as well? How are you?”

Clearly he hasn’t been keeping up with the community gossip. You smile politely, trying for a quick exit now that the previously missing container has been added to your bags. “As well? No. I live here, Tom.”

“You moved back? I thought – Mum said you graduated with honors? Had a position lined up from your internship, too. What happened?”

You blink at him. There goes your quick and tactful exit. His exuberant analysis of your life isn’t meant as an attack even if it feels that way. It takes you a second to figure out how to respond to him. “Wow. Um. Things just didn’t work out, Tom. Thanks for the … concern?”

He’s curious now, and for the moment looking appropriately apologetic. He tilts his head and squints his eyes ever so slightly, determined to figure out your life’s trajectory. “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just trying to sauce out how you went from your dream job to…”

“Mom got sick.” There. Those three words, delivered with a fair bit of bite, manage to shut him up. Again you feel that twinge of guilt. You exhale, shifting the bags in your arms again, “I freelance, for now. It pays for her hospice care. My dreams will keep, and if they don’t, well – they were just dreams.”

“I’m sorry.”

It’s an expression you’ve heard far too often. That expression, paired with a look of pity, is typical when people hear about your situation. You shake your head gently to try to dispel your irritation. It doesn’t work very well, but it’s the best you can manage for the time being. “I’m not. We’re enjoying the time we’ve been given. Tonight’s actually movie night… So.” You clear your throat and offer a small nod, “Good seeing you, Tom. Now get back to your people. They’re waiting.”

Tom replies to your back as you walk towards the door, “Give your mum my best.”

Upon hearing the news that he’s local, for however brief a time, your mother attempts to get you to abandon movie night in favor of seeking out your childhood friend. Catching up with him isn’t high on your priority list, particularly while still feeling the sting of his remarks regarding your pursuit of your dreams. Taking care of family is just as important if not more so! Dreams will keep – or – well, they’re just dreams. You think of three dozen responses that are a thousand times better than the one you leveled at him in the restaurant. Moving home is not a choice you regret, nor is spending the evening with her rather than going on a goose chase to see if the Hiddleston clan is still out on the town. You chose to come home and provide for her as best you can, and that’s what you mean to do until the end.

He doesn’t stop by to visit over the next few days, either to follow up the conversation with you or to offer up a few words to your mother. You almost wish you’d never told her that you’d seen him in town. She does seem to enjoy revisiting memories of years gone by and the adventures had by your group of friends.

It’s not until after her passing that you see him again. Not at the funeral, though maybe he’d been there. You hardly remember anything other than staring at the side of the casket that had been hemmed with tulips on both ends. She’d picked everything out: the words that would be said and by whom, the music that would be played – something upbeat to dance to that you’d never be able to listen to again without feeling the ache of loss, and yes – she’d been insistent on tulips. She’d vowed to haunt the fool out of both the funeral home and the local flower shop if they tried to put lilies there instead.

The reception is well under weigh when you sense someone sidle up to you. Not hard to find you, really, considering the steady stream of people that have seemingly cornered you near the entrance to the kitchen. The one bonus of the spot – you’re standing close enough to the liquor cabinet that you’ll eventually be able to sidestep and snag a bottle.

“Sorry for your loss.”

Yet another sorry from yet another acquaintance that doesn’t know quite what else to say. How many _sorrys_ will you have to endure? You’re starting to become immune, as bad as it sounds.

“Thank you.” The words come out practically on autopilot as you accept the muttered apologies. But this person who has sidled up next to you doesn’t leave as the others have before them.

You glance aside to find shoulders – Tom’s shoulders – clad in a lovely dark suit. He isn’t thrown by your slow realization, or by the extended silence that follows. To your surprise he steps around you to clear the path through the rooms again, adjusting his stance as he falls in to your left to watch the crowd mingle in your mother’s house.

Is he waiting to find an opening into waxing poetical about life, and loss? Waiting to tell you that your mother has gone on to a better place? For that you’ll need a drink, most certainly something stronger than the white wine you’ve been sipping. You have no intention of offering him any sort of fragment of conversation as a way to get the ball rolling.

“You know….”

The moment he starts speaking you cut him off. “Don’t.”

He’s trying to keep his voice down, even if you aren’t. “I know it isn’t the right time to mention –“

“Then _don’t_ , Tom.” The nerve! While you’re standing here reeling from loss he’s going to try to resume the conversation the pair of you left off those few weeks ago!

“I know, but…”

There is no but that can _ever_ follow condolences that will ever be ok. Period. You squeeze the stem of the wineglass in your left hand. “Stop.”

Tom pulls his hands from his trousers pockets, gesturing a bit to try to soften the point he’s trying to make. Ineffectual. His efforts are entirely ineffectual. “You’ve got opportunities. Doors that are opening. You’ve got to start living again.”

You hiss at him. “How dare you! I just buried my mother! This is her fucking _wake_!”

“It’s what she would have wanted.”

The low level and mostly one sided argument is starting to draw the attention of more than just the poor few stationed close by. “Wanted?! Fuck off, Tom. _That’s_ what she would’ve wanted.” He doesn’t listen. Doesn’t budge from where he’s taken up position by your side, despite your agitation. “Get out! Get away from me!”

It isn’t until Tom reaches out to try to stop you from walking away from him that you completely lose control of your anger. He hadn’t even the decency to wait a few days after her death to try to talk you into chasing your dreams again? How dare he! You consider, for a moment, tossing the rest of your drink in his face… but why waste the wine? Your right hand is already swinging to land on that beautiful cheek when you realize what a spectacle you’re making on the day you should be honoring your mother’s memory.

 _SLAP_ – the sound of your hand coming into contact with the side of Tom’s face brings a halt to every conversation being held in the house.


End file.
